Doctor Who and the Krikkitmen

by Adams, Douglas

  The people of this world were gently furry, not so much bears as department store workers dressed as bears. Their faces had the sweet blankness shared by rabbits, sheep and koalas. They danced and tumbled and jostled and giggled and tried their best to make everyone happy.

  The Doctor angrily swatted away a proffered bag of sweets. ‘Who’s behind all this, that’s what I want to know?’ he grated. ‘It can’t be the Master. He’s not fond of show tunes.’ He kicked at a fallen toffee apple, only for a child to rush forward, pick it up, and bin it responsibly. ‘Something’s very wrong with this world.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Romana asked.

  The Doctor continued staring at the singers, mouthing along to their words. ‘I think,’ he announced after a while, ‘that it’s a coded cry for help. If only I could decipher it.’

  Romana laid a fond hand on the Doctor’s wrist. ‘I’m going for a stroll,’ she said. This world was a peaceful place and it was their job to stop the Krikkitmen ravaging it. She’d happily locate the last part of the Wicket while he dreamt up conspiracy theories. ‘Don’t go unmasking any of those children as assassins. I doubt their parents would approve.’

  She wandered away, aware of K-9 following. He nudged up against her leg.

  ‘Mistress, I have a theory.’

  ‘What is it, K-9?’ Romana reluctantly took her eyes off a passing juggler.

  ‘I believe the Doctor-Master is mistaken about the nature of this world.’ The dog paused, thoughtful. ‘Bethselamin has an unbroken history of peace. Due to its natural abundance of resources and a relatively uncluttered evolution, the peoples of this world have never had to fight. They have never known major conflict. This world has also never been invaded as it is lacking in mineral wealth.’

  ‘You’re quite correct,’ Romana agreed. If you invaded this planet you’d only get a hold full of eucalyptus and slaves who could play the lyre. ‘This is a world without threat, without anger, without malice.’

  ‘The Doctor-Master is bored,’ said K-9.

  The Doctor continued to be bored through the feasts, through the speeches, and only perked up during the tour of the graveyard. The leader of Bethselamin had taken them there ‘because our ancestors will be so sorry to have missed you’. Romana thought that a bit ghoulish, but the Doctor was obviously thrilled.

  ‘Maybe they’re being run by ghosts,’ he rumbled. He got out his sonic screwdriver and waved it around the headstones. ‘Don’t worry,’ he confided in one of the men following him. ‘This isn’t the first planet ruled by the dead. I know what to do.’

  The man looked rather baffled. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ the Doctor growled, after staring at the screwdriver. ‘Nothing’s wrong. That’s the problem.’

  Romana found the Doctor pacing up and down on a patch of scrubland. He’d turned his back on the fireworks and was instead glaring at the stars.

  ‘Are you actually willing the Krikkitmen to invade?’ she asked tartly.

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘It’d smoke these boobies out of their complacency,’ he suggested. ‘Of course, I’d be only too delighted to protect them if that happens. But this lot need shaking up.’ He scuffed at some neatly trimmed grass with his shoe. ‘You know what they’re planning tomorrow? The whole city has got orchestra practice together, because they feel it unites them and makes the most of their creativity. Honestly, I tell you, it’s some sort of mind control.’ He brightened. ‘Evil. Alien. Mind. Control. Yes, maybe that’s it …’

  Romana watched him walk away. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It just sounds rather nice.’

  K-9 nodded his head.

  In many ways, Romana found the planet of Bethselamin a fascinating example of evolutionary cosmology. No wonder Time Lord observational craft loved visiting here – nothing happened. The worst thing about her visit was trying to convince these gentle, firmly fixed people that the sky was about to fall in. Never mind finding the Silver Bail Of Peace – the Bethselamin were about to be slaughtered.

  While the Doctor strode around looking for a hidden supercomputer to baffle, Romana and K-9 tried to convince people that the Krikkitmen were coming.

  ‘Really?’ said Andvalmon. ‘What kind of music would they like?’

  Andvalmon was their host. Not, he was at pains to point out, Bethselamin’s leader. (‘We don’t really have leaders,’ he said. ‘We don’t like being told what to do.’ Which explained why their orchestra was so bad.) He was simply there to make sure they had a good time. He had a casual, wispy beauty to him – like a cloud or a sandcastle. Everything about him looked as though a strong wind would finish him off. He wafted – his clothes, his hair, his voice, all held a peculiarly fragile quality about them. Andvalmon was a man made out of pastels. He wore a permanently brave smile which even stood up to the Doctor’s booming assaults.

  ‘Is your friend all right?’ Andvalmon asked after a particularly brusque denunciation from the Time Lord. ‘We have some excellent wickerwork therapy. And also a lovely spa.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Romana waved the notion away. ‘He just can’t cope with nice places. They bring out the worst in him.’

  Andvalmon seemed puzzled by this. ‘So … not all planets are like this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ Romana giggled. ‘K-9 says you’re in a lucky evolutionary curve. No one wants anything from you. Are you sure you’ve never had any invaders?’

  Andvalmon scratched his thatch of hair. ‘We’ve had visitors. Sometimes they try and make us join armies, or conglomerates, or …’ He scratched his head a little harder. ‘Strategic Trading Alliances. We thank them for their interest and tell them that it doesn’t sound much like fun. And, sometimes they’re happy to stay for the dances we do in their honour. But they normally leave before the orchestra plays for them.’

  Romana couldn’t blame them. Last night they’d asked the Doctor if he had any requests. He’d offered them Beethoven’s Fifth and the William Tell Overture. They’d played them both. At the same time.

  K-9 had carried out extensive research, and concluded that Bethselamin was hopeless. Its people would make awful soldiers and worse slaves.

  The Doctor still hadn’t stopped tapping at the walls, desperate to discover hidden circuitry or concealed cameras. While he wandered around, grumbling, Romana tried to explain the concept of an invasion to Andvalmon. She told him about the Krikkitmen.

  Andvalmon nodded sagely. ‘But why would they kill us?’ he said. ‘We would offer no resistance. We would not hurt them.’

  Romana chewed at her lip. ‘It’s not that simple. They just really don’t like other species. They consider it their duty to wipe them all out.’

  Andvalmon stroked the three tufts of fur on his chin. ‘That seems a bit of a shame,’ he said. ‘But no matter. I’m sure that if we are welcoming, they will treat us with kindness.’

  Romana held her breath. This was like explaining to an Australian quokka that the hungry fox bounding off the newly arrived boat wasn’t going to be its cuddly new friend. The Bethselamini didn’t hunt, so they had no more concept of prey than of musical timing. They were going to be complete victims.

  ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘they’re going to turn up and take something from you. I’ve been skirting around this, but do you by any chance own a big silver stick? Size could vary.’

  Andvalmon considered. ‘We have such a thing in the temple. The Peace Rod. We worship it as a sacred relic. No particular reason. It just makes us feel good.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to lose it, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Andvalmon. ‘But who’d take it?’

  ‘The Krikkitmen would. They want it. They’ll come here and they’ll take it away.’

  Andvalmon frowned. ‘That would be a shame.’

  He was getting it. ‘And so,’ Romana pressed home her advantage, ‘that’s why we have to stop it. The best way to do that
is to give it to us.’

  Andvalmon chuckled and wagged a finger at her. ‘You’re saying that an alien race we’ve never heard of is coming to steal our Peace Rod, and that, in order to stop that, we should give you the Rod?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m disappointed in you.’

  ‘No.’ Romana realised her stumble. ‘If you give it to us, then the Krikkitmen may not come here. Untold lives will be saved.’

  Andvalmon laughed some more. ‘So, the way we’ll know we’ve been spared is if nothing at all happens?’ He stood up, brushed himself off and wandered away. ‘We may be simple, but we are not fools.’

  Romana watched him go and cursed softly.

  ‘Doctor,’ began Romana. ‘We’re going to have to break into their Temple of Peace and take the Silver Bail.’

  ‘Oh good,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Anything but listen to another concert. I gave them the score for Rigoletto and they said they’d be only too happy to play it … whilst having another crack at Beethoven’s Fifth.’ He shuddered. ‘If they do get invaded, it’ll probably be by music critics. They’ll bombard them with sarcasm then steal all their peanuts and wine.’

  The Bethselamini Temple of Peace was proof that most species will worship anything, even something they have no real idea of.fn1

  The tribe were grateful for Peace, but without having a grasp of War. They were aware that they didn’t really have leaders (and that was nice). They were even more grateful that their leaders didn’t tell them to grab something heavy and hit the people of the next valley with it. They rather liked the people of the next valley, who liked them back. So, as far as they could see, a war would cause a few problems. The next valley made a lovely wine, and rather enjoyed swapping it for some spare cheese, which all seemed very agreeable, but was likely to come to an abrupt halt once you’d hit their relatives with a stick. But then again, this was just a slightly bemusing notion.

  The Bethselamini only really had an idea of War because philosophers kept coming up with it as an abstract concept. ‘You know how yesterday was pleasant? And today went well, and, chances are, tomorrow will continue agreeably, with everyone being nice to each other? Well, imagine if that didn’t happen – what would that look like?’ Every now and then, a philosopher would raise this as a notion, and their audience would stare at them, puzzled. ‘No, sorry, I don’t quite get it,’ they’d apologise. ‘It just sounds horrid.’

  ‘Quite so,’ the philosophers would say. ‘But isn’t it interesting? Isn’t it?’

  After a while, partly to stop the philosophers grumbling, they built the Temple of Peace. The philosophers agreed a definition of what Peace was (being Bethselamin, it was all done very amicably), and everyone agreed that it was as good a place as any to put that silver rod they had lying around. It made a rather nice symbol of what the philosophers were chuntering about, and a shiny pole was far easier (and nicer) to look at than an idea. As time went on, everyone became really terribly fond of the Temple of Peace. Some even started to credit it with a supernatural ability to ‘Keep the Peace’.

  Perhaps inevitably, when War finally came to Bethselamin, it came to the Temple of Peace.

  It was late at night when the TARDIS did its best to whisper out of the Vortex. Romana had coaxed another short hop out of the machine, nudging them from the outskirts of town to the heart of the Temple of Peace.

  The Doctor emerged, still chuntering. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if we were in Betelgeuse. Type 40s weren’t designed for short hops, I keep telling you. It’s like getting a steam train to do your ironing. Oh.’ On this last syllable, he looked around with the annoyed disappointment of a man who has found himself exactly where he was supposed to be. This never happened to the Doctor, and it always felt peculiarly wrong – rather like reaching for the wrong condiment in a café and sugaring your soup.

  ‘Humph, well done, Romana,’ he said begrudgingly. ‘Let’s go and steal this Rod.’

  Romana slid out beside the Doctor, holding a thin steel pipe in her hand.

  ‘Already?’ The Doctor frowned. This was taking efficiency too far.

  ‘Oh no,’ Romana said. ‘I found this in the TARDIS workshop. Hopefully it’ll do as a replacement.’

  The Doctor frowned at that. Romana had been helping herself to his stocks of Useful Things. Next she’d be going through his shed, throwing out his Interesting Bits of Wood and old issues of Eagle, and then he really would have to put his foot down.

  ‘Come on!’ he said, heading off for the inner sanctum.

  Really, there wasn’t that much difference between the inner and outer sanctums. In fact, the Temple of Peace was about the size and shape of not so much a parish church as the little concrete annex they built at the side of one for crèches and bring and buys. In the middle of the little room were two wooden crooks. Resting between them was the Silver Rod of Peace.

  The Doctor paused in the act of reaching for it. He looked round. No killer androids. Excellent. He reached forward.

  ‘Doctor!’ someone shouted.

  People were always shouting his name at him. There were various ways of doing it, and, really, one day, he must sit down and categorise them. There were, for instance, at least seven different ways of saying ‘Doctor?’ with a question mark, ranging from ‘I’m about to remind you of my existence by asking you an annoying question’ to ‘I appear to be dangling from a cliff and was wondering what you were planning on doing about it.’ ‘Doctor,’ with a comma, was also rarely good news – at one end of the spectrum it was a prelude to ‘You’ve tried to fix K-9 with a bit of the toaster again’ and at another it was ‘We’ve decided you should rule our planet / be our scientific adviser / be fed to the great swamp monster.’ Worst of all was ‘Doctor!’ with that deadly exclamation mark. Most of the time it was uttered by something ghastly in a shiny uniform – either Sontarans or Bus Conductors. Rarely, it was used by maniacs to wish him good riddance as they tumbled into their own doomsday devices.

  Right now it was being shouted by Andvalmon, stepping forward from the shadows of the temple with a look of angry reproach.

  ‘Lovely night for it,’ began the Doctor hopefully.

  Andvalmon’s expression made his disappointment clear. ‘I really had hoped for better from you,’ he said. ‘We don’t have theft on this world.’ He pointed at Romana, who, for once, was staring at her shoes. ‘Your friend didn’t fool me. There are no Krikkitmen.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the Doctor, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but we must take that Silver Rod.’ He executed a theatrical bow of apology. It was an act of winning charm which singularly failed to achieve his point, but did save his life, because, as he bowed, a bat sliced through the air and embedded itself in the wall.

  The Krikkitmen had arrived.

  It would be nice to say of Bethselamin’s First and Only Battle that the people of the planet proved natural fighters. They did not. They died.

  The Krikkitmen poured out of the Temple of Peace, slaughtering anything that moved, with an insulting lack of creativity. They created a wall of death and panic that spread as the people streamed away from the Temple.

  They could have stopped there. The objective was theirs. They could just take it and go. But, at some level of core programming, the Krikkitmen sensed that here were a people who’d never known war, violence, or slaughter. It was too much for them to resist.

  The Doctor, Romana and Andvalmon watched from inside the Temple, surrounded by less than half a dozen Krikkitmen. Squinting through the smoke, the Doctor was able to estimate that there were about a dozen in total. Enough to turn a planet to mince.

  The Doctor had tried shouting at one of the Krikkitmen. It had ignored him with a very special, icily mechanical ignoring which said plainly: ‘I know you are there but I do not care.’ Two androids plucked the Silver Bail from its cradle and carried it through the open doors of the Krikkit Pavilion.

  The situation was grim. The Doctor’s misgivings about Bethselamin were forgotten. They had to do something. The
invasion had been so sudden. There hadn’t even been time to summon K-9. The Doctor looked at Andvalmon and Romana. The poor young man was dangling at the end of a Krikkitman’s arm. He was struggling and wailing. A Krikkitman was advancing on Romana, its bat raised in a way that clearly meant business. There was probably another of the things coming for him, but the Doctor’s sense of priority had always been skewed.

  He forgot about his own impending death, about the failure of his mission, about the imminent cosmological catastrophe. Down the hill, some rather nice people were being massacred and he’d glimpsed something through the doors of the Pavilion. Something which had piqued his curiosity.

  As a viciously sharp bat sliced towards him, the Doctor ducked and slid across the temple floor, staggering inside the Pavilion. What common sense he had left told him that he had seconds before being very firmly killed. But, to the Doctor, seconds were plenty of time. He looked around the Pavilion, and found it immediately curious.

  ‘But it’s bigger on the inside than on the outside,’ he marvelled. People were always saying that about his own ship, but to find that the Krikkitmen had a similar craft was both intriguing, exciting and disappointing. Their ship really was remarkably roomy. Which was curious. Especially as it also seemed to be able to pop out of thin air. It had more in common with his own craft than it really should have.

  The second thing the Doctor noticed was even more unforgivably enticing. On a wall was a big, red lever decorated with elaborate warning signs.

  ‘Coo!’

  As he said this, he became aware that the air behind his neck was parting as something sharp and deadly headed his way.

  Paying the warning signs no attention whatsoever, the Doctor jerked the big red lever.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE BORING TEST

  ‘Well, that’s anticlimactic.’

  The Doctor was surveying the army of very dead Krikkitmen.